Whatever Will Break You
by MyPenYourPaper
Summary: Set at the end of Catching Fire. Rated T for future chapters. President Snow is out to silence the Mockingjay. And to do it he will need her two greatest weaknesses: the arena and her loved ones. My first fic, reviews appreciated!
1. A New Arena

I wake up in my bed and pull the sheets closer, the cold from the sterile hovercraft room is uninviting. I dare not open my eyes, knowing as soon as I wake I'll have to find Haymitch and apologize. After all, the scratches down his face won't heal quickly. But I'm sure he's found some liquor to take the edge off. Someone moves beside me, rattling instruments next to my bed. I pray it's not another sedative, I'll be like those morphlings from Six in no time. Even the one who saved Peeta looked beyond repair. Peeta. My heart sinks into my stomach and I stifle a groan. Where is he? What have they done? These thoughts only make me more nauseous. Finally I let my eyes pop open to take in the stale white of the room they're storing me in, waiting for the edge of the arena to ware off. Joke's on them. It never does.

But I am not on board a hovercraft. A rebel medic is not preparing to pull me under again. My mother is arranging her healing tools on the other side of my bedroom. I am in my bed in Victor's Village and I can practically smell the smoldering rubble beyond my window. Oh yeah, District Twelve has been reduced to this. The lonely houses Peeta, Haymitch, and I inhabit. It's supposed to be an honor. Then why does it feel like misery? Maybe because I know there's no Hob, no Mellark Bakery, no Justice Building.

I manage to sit up on my elbows, stare at the back of my mother. She looks frail, unsubstantial. I wonder when she last had a meal. "Where's Prim?" I croak. She spins around to look at me, the shock on her face is quickly replaced with a smile.

"Good morning. It's barely dawn. Go back to sleep." she coos, walking over to tuck me in again. But she teeters as she walks, hunger and fatigue taking over. But no, there's something else. Grief. I know that look well. It set up shop almost permanently on her face when my father died. But I'm home now, I survived the Quell. Where was this coming from?

"Prim?" I demand again, my voice finding strength as I rise even further. But every bone in my body creaks, my muscles protest in agony. The spot in my arm where Johanna cut out my tracker burns like pure fire.

"Katniss," my mother begins, trying to force me to lie down again. A low hiss at the end of my bed catches my attention. As I dislodge my feet from under my tight covers, Buttercup has lost his makeshift bed. I scowl at him and he hops down, flicking his tail up as he retreats, deliberately showing me his rear end.

I'm trying to get to my feet, propelling myself forward one step at a time, when I hear it. The anthem of Panem echoes downstairs and I am frozen in surprise. Mostly from the fact that the Capitol is still broadcasting to District Twelve. Clearly, no one is left to see it. Disregarding my numerous injuries, I take to the stairs at a run, tripping over Buttercup on the bottom step. He bolts out the kitchen window as my mother follows, stooping down to pick me up from where I'm sprawled on the floor.

When I'm on my feet again, I hurl myself toward the source of the anthem, now replaced by commentary. I recognize the voices of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith instantly. They often contribute to my nightmares. "Welcome back to our coverage of the 76th Hunger Games! Expedited by our beloved President Snow this year. And I must say, this turn of events has people buzzing!" Caesar says enthusiastically.

"Right you are, Caesar! For those of you just joining us, you may be aware of some of the technical difficulties faced during the Quarter Quell. President Snow has taken it upon himself to create a new set of games to start in just mere minutes. Caesar, care to explain?" Claudius turns back to him expectantly. I move closer to the screen, perplexed.

"Indeed, I do. In a brilliant attempt to correct the problems experienced during the Quell, President Snow has hand selected twenty-four new tributes to bring honor to the great country of Panem. Now, while two tributes from each District were not reaped traditionally, we guarantee some lively entertainment, folks. The gamemakers have been working diligently this week to provide a spectacular arena. And while you will recognize many familiar faces, we also have a crop of new competitors that ought to liven up the betting!" Caesar says triumphantly.

"May the odds be ever in their favor!" adds Claudius with zeal.

The screen changes quickly to a new arena, hastily constructed, but as breathtaking and deadly as ever. Twenty-four circular metal openings lay empty thirty yards from the giant Cornucopia. Its contents look sparse compared to previous years. Clearly, these "hand selected" tributes do not have the odds in their favor. It rests atop several tall pillars, at least twenty feet in the air. The pillars look to be old and decrepit, so I imagine the golden horn is actually suspended above them by some invisible plain. All around is a barren wasteland of sand and rock. No, I see trees on the opposite side of the Cornucopia.

I have stopped listening to the commentary, to the updates as the tributes enter their tubes. I sink to my knees in front of the television as the platforms rise and the tributes enter the arena. The clock begins to count down from sixty and the air is taken from my body. My heart has stopped, I'm suspended in another reality. Each face is shown across the screen and I don't recognize one. Two. Not even three. All twenty-four tributes are friends, allies, at the very least acquaintances. But I know these people and they know me. Not as a star-crossed lover or the girl on fire, but as Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve. The clock winds down as the camera passes Haymitch, Johanna, Gale, Madge, Peeta, and the last tribute. Shaking as she waits for the gong to sound. Prim.


	2. Introductions

"What happened?" I ask my mother, trying to sort through my memories although all I find is emptiness. "What happened to the others?" I clarify, trying to get my bearings on what I'm seeing. My eyes do not stray from the live feed of the arena. The stalemate reached between the tributes does not budge.

The gong has just sounded moments ago. It rang out more piercing than I've ever heard it. But maybe that's because these games are more personal, far more horrific to me. The victors, Finnick, Enobaria, and Beetee among them, had reached the ground beneath the Cornucopia in seconds. But no bloodbath had ensued. I play the confrontation, the agreement, over in my mind. It shattered any recorded strategy in Hunger Games history.

"Stop!" a voice shouted among the trampling footsteps determined to reach the bounty before the others. It was strong, confident. I expected it could only come from someone with experience in the Capitol's cruelty. Haymitch, Gale, maybe even Peeta. But no, it was Cinna. My calm, collected stylist whose sophisticated quirks like his many earrings and gold eyeliner are now absent. The other tributes, terrified and confident alike, had stopped in their tracks to listen. "We're not enemies. We can't kill each other." That was it, a simple reminder of wrong and right and all competitive pretenses were washed away. When no one died and a universal alliance was decided upon, I finally turned to question my mother.

Now we sit in stunned silence, watching one tribute after another stand on a pair of shoulders to reach the Cornucopia, as my mother tries to find the right words. "They came during the bombings and took her, right from her bed. Then the rebels brought you back to me and within hours they had seized their hovercraft. It's like they wanted you home safe first." she says, tears that have threatened to appear this whole time finally spill over. Of course they did. Or I should say he. He wanted me to watch this.

I look back to the screen and press my fingertips to it. The cameras show their faces in turn. Prim is smallest and could climb up the others with ease. She scaled their shoulders and crawled into the mouth of the Cornucopia shakily. Now I watch her young, innocent face as she passes the parcels down. The tributes remaining on the ground begin to dig through them anxiously.

"Weapons! Only weapons!" a voice calls tentatively from the ground. It's a girl I don't recognize. But I do know her voice. I know it well from the screams of the jabberjays that haunt my dreams. Annie Cresta, District Four Champion and Finnick Odair's real love. Finnick is the last rung on the ladder. He lets Peeta down gently from his shoulders, sure to put his weight on the uninjured leg, and turns to Beetee.

"Just like the Quell." he mutters, Beetee only nods. "Think they want it over quick?" he adds. Beetee gives him a solemn look, considering his words.

"I think they want a spectacle." he admits, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids beneath his glasses.

"Then we'll give them one." says a gruff voice. They look around to find it coming from Enobaria, the bloodthirsty wild woman from District Two. "Only one victor." she reminds them, running a calloused thumb over the large machete in her hand.

"No." says another voice, not nearly as strong. Peeta steps forward and I notice the limp of his artificial leg that I usually ignore. "This is different. We'll find a way out. Maybe we should introduce ourselves, find out why they chose us." he suggests, looking around for support. No one says a word. Half of the tributes are watching him, hands poised idly on their weapons. The other half look to the ground, occasionally at the trees beyond the Cornucopia. It is obvious in this moment who is prone to fight and who prefers flight. Peeta clears his throat and presses on. "Does anyone here feel confident that they know everyone?" he asks, staring determinedly into each face for half a second.

"That'd be me, kid." someone croaks. The others make a small opening in their line to allow the speaker to come forward. There, in tribute's clothing covered in sweat, is Haymitch. His hand is raised casually in the air and the withdrawal from the liquor is so obvious it makes me uncomfortable. He steps closer to Peeta, trying miserably to stifle a tremor in his hands. He gazes around at the group, screwing up his face to adjust his vision. When he seems satisfied with his memory, he smiles darkly. "I believe we've met." he says.


End file.
